Isla and the San Franciscan Summer
by miraloma
Summary: It's the summer after senior year and Isla and the gang are in the City by the Bay for three months of food, friends, and fun. San Francisco is a bastion of history, culture, and individualism, but will insecurities get the best of Isla as she balances work, love, and the romantic mission of a certain beloved soccer player?


Dresses are absurd, I decide. No, not just dresses. Clothes generally. Ascertaining the tone of an occasion, analyzing complementary pieces, and assembling an acceptable ensemble? No thanks. There's no reason why we can't all run around in potato sacks and focus on things that matter, like figuring out our purpose in life or spooning our devilishly handsome artist boyfriends. It's the 21st century for god's sake. It's time to abolish the institution, I decide, as I comb through my closet for the hundredth time. By the time I remove the strapless number I'm currently trying to justify I'm already the de facto leader of the war on wardrobes.

One glance at my Betsy Johnson-stuffed closet and the profusion of Jimmy Choos overflowing from my shoe organizer tells me this war wouldn't be won any time soon. Since when did I find getting dressed so difficult?

As if answering my internal dialogue, Josh comes over from the couch to confront me up close, wrapping his wiry arms around my waist. I'm still half-dressed, but I'm far from complaining. "Isla. You have the most adorable style of anyone I know and the gang could care less even if you didn't. What could possibly be wrong with any of these outfits?"

And therein lay the problem. "I just want your friends to like me." Josh's friends have been nothing but nice—more than nice actually. So nice that we wouldn't even be here, in the lovely city and county of San Francisco, without their inhuman generosity.

St. Clair's lease wasn't going to expire until the end of the summer, but he was basically living out of Anna's apartment in the city the second Berkeley's classes let out, leaving an apartment just an hour from the city without a tenant, and a highly persuasive, charismatic young man who could use the presence of his best friend as his engagement settled in. When Josh read about an illustration summer master course at the Academy of Art in San Francisco, it was only a matter of time before Josh "just happened to stumble upon" an opportunity for me to intern at a magazine in the city. Brilliant artist, but actor he was not. Fortunately, it didn't take a particularly moving act on his end to convince me to join my boyfriend in a very free, very private apartment for a summer of bliss.

Once we were committed, Meredith was soon to follow. Although she's as American as apple pie, one of the perks of going to school in Rome was that it turns a stay in the States into some deeply enriching academic experience that her school was all too happy to sponsor. Even Rashmi secured an exchange at Stanford to do research. Thus, Josh's crew was reunited, at last.

I thought I'd grown. I truly thought I had. I had accepted Rashmi's importance in Josh's life, overcome my jealousy, and was looking forward to finally getting to know the people that had made Josh the person he was today. All was smooth sailing until I woke up this morning and broke the zipper on the dress I'd planned to wear. Then suddenly, nothing was right.

I wiggle out of his arms and make my way to the rejects. "Too chipper. Too bright. Too girly. Too revealing. Too attention-seeking." I think of Rashmi's svelte black ensembles, topped with a simple scarf, or Anna's film festival t-shirts and boyfriend jeans. "They're all so artsy and sophisticated and I usually like the way I dress but I don't want to call attention to myself as 'that new girl Josh brought along' and I don't want to take attention from you and four friends and all the things you have in common and and Rashmi's too beautiful and I really can't pull off black and I can't wear this dress and nothing's going right and _I just want them to like me._" I breathe. I can't tell if I'm having an anxiety attack or I'm just exhausted by the polysyndeton.

Silently, Josh makes his way to my closet and returns holding a navy blue polka-dotted number with a chic boat neck. The skirt is full and flouncy to the extreme, and I'm well-aware of how it bounces when I walk. It's the dress I wore went we first went to the comic store. Our first, first date.

He kisses my nose. "You." My forehead. "Are." My cheeks. "Absolutely." He swings me onto his lap, back onto the bed. "Perfect."

I look in his eyes, lose myself in the warm hazel, and in the moment with him I can't help but think it's absolutely true.

* * *

We meet up with Josh's friend at a tiny, though crowded, restaurant in San Francisco's Castro district. If I didn't love Anna and St. Clair enough simply by association, the fact that they've brought us to this vibrant little neighborhood is enough to make me fall in love with them all over again. The Castro is like brunch, personified. Metropolitan, but cozy. Serious, but fun. I get this neighborly feeling that everyone is living a busy, frantic life, but they're willing to slow down and enjoy a few precious hours of conversation, carved out for the all-too-necessary 'I'm over the rowdy party years but I still love me some weekend day drinking' mimosa.

Thanks to some morning coital shenanigans, we're the last to arrive, and we take our place between Rashmi and Meredith. Josh gets a panini and I order this dietary atrocity called Millionaire's bacon as we settle into the conversation.

"And then this one here," St. Clair gestures toward Anna, " tells them he can shove his love of Linklater up his arse."

Anna laughs. "Look, if I'm going to matter in a male-dominated industry, I can't be afraid to defend my perspective. Over 80% of movies have a male protagonist, and most of them don't even pass the Bechdel test. I don't know why I'm supposed to be moved by yet another rehashing of the trials and tribulations of the straight white male in our straight white male world. It's things like make people like Dave what's-his-face grow up thinking he's the center of the universe."

"And we all know how much Anna _hates _Dave what's-his-face," Rashmi says dryly.

Anna blushes. "We all have our moments of insecurities. But I'd like to think my tastes have evolved a little."

"Here, here," Josh raises a glass and locks eyes with me. "To moments of insecurity and evolution."

The food arrives in a flurry of waiters' bows and pristine china plates and even for fastidious Parisian-Manhattanite hybrids like us, the food is divine. Millionaire's bacon is aptly named—sweet, luxurious, and so good you can't help but think that some sort of Faustian deal went into producing it. On top of sheer nervousness, brunch is so enticing that I'm distracted from partaking much in their bittersweet reminiscing and wedding planning, but I think I've managed to come across as inoffensive. I don't think I've called much attention to myself at all actually, which is why I'm surprised when Meredith taps me on the shoulder as we're about to leave.

"Sorry Joshy-kins, but I'm going to have to interrupt this little lovefest and steal your lady friend for a minute. Do you mind?"

Josh looks pleased. "Not at all. I'm just going to check out an art supply store I saw down the block to pick up some new pastels. I'll meet you back here, Isla?"

I nod. "Sure thing. What can I do for you Meredith?" Rashi and Anna share a look while the former makes no attempt to hide her surprise.

"What's up with you two?" she asks.

Meredith stands up and ties up her thick, curly hair. "Nothing, Rash. It's called being friendly, maybe you should try it sometime?" She turns to me, linking arms. "Take a walk?"

We head down Market Street, blistering wind cutting past us. I can see why she tied up her hair; I'm lost in a fiery frenzy of hair. When we reach a park bench to collect ourselves, I can see Meredith visibly nervous. It's unnerving for me as well, seeing the uber-confident soccer star I know so on-edge, but I wait patiently for her to speak.

It comes out in a steady stream of words. Or, rather, word. "This-is-really-embarrassing-for-me-but-I-have-no-love-life-and-I-need-you-to-find-me-a-husband-so-I-don't-die-alone-and-get-found-in-my-empty-apartment-weeks-late-amid-a-mountain-of-cat-carcasses." She rubs her hands over her face and tries again. "Sorry. That came out wrong. What I mean is, everyone in the universe is banging and I just want to bang too, with you and Josh and Anna and St. Clair." She takes a breath and does some athletic-looking quad stretches. Cooling down. "God, I'm sorry! That was even worse. Look, what I want to say is this: you're cute and tiny and feminine. I am not. You're in a healthy, loving relationship. I am not. And I know that a girl doesn't need a man to complete her and I don't need to change myself and blah, blah, blah, but when you run with this crowd, nowadays it seems like you do. It's terribly embarrassing and I don't think Anna or Rashmi would let me hear the end of it, but I can tell you're the romantic type and you won't tell anyone anything if I ask. Plus," she smiles. "You'd do anything to get on Josh's friends' good side."

She looks at me earnestly, then laughs. "Oh, don't look so aghast, Isla! I'm not asking you to murder anyone. Although this is a secret you should guard with the same delicacy, and probably a feat of the same lethal difficulty." She lowers her voice conspiringly. "I need you to find me a date to the wedding."

* * *

"Here's the thing I don't get," Josh sighs as I bury my head in his shoulder. It's a typical Saturday evening for us, lying in bed together and catching up on some television post-food. I'm so blissfully happy right now, Mike Reynard could storm in and I'd be unfazed. Josh continues his commentary on the protagonist of the show we're watching, _The Mindy Project. _"She's got this great job, great friends, and a great apartment in the greatest city on earth. Why is she so obsessed with finding a guy?"

I'm reminded of the promise I eagerly made to Meredith earlier that day and I have to suppress a guffaw. "Sorry Mr. Cynical, I couldn't hear your hypocritical condemnation of romance over the giant heart Matisse's holding." I gesture to the monstrosity of a stuffed bear at the foot of the bed, complete with an equally gargantuan heart sewn between his arms. Josh had won it for me during our incredibly-cliched, quasi-ironic excursion to the state fair the past weekend. What started as a tirade against shallow traditional displays of masculinity soon devolved into Josh spending $100 over the course of an hour to win the stuffed animal named for our favorite French modernist. Meredith's right-the group's become romance addicts.

He gives a sheepish grin that earns him a chastising bop on the nose. "Yeah, yeah , you caught me—I'm a sappy fool. But it takes one to love one."

We've been dating for nearly eight months now, but I'm still absolutely inundated with girlish feelings of giddiness whenever he teases me. I feel a very visceral need to kiss him—everywhere, with everything—that's nearly impossible to suppress. I resist my urges to answer him though: "It's not just that she's trying to find love though that makes her relatable. I mean, look at her. She's gorgeous, but nothing about her is traditional. She's the polar opposite of any of the models we'd see in Paris."

_The Mindy Project_ is one of my favorite shows and, secretly, I consider Dr. Mindy Lahiri my alter ego. Smart, ambitious, girly, and stylish, she had many qualities I'd hope people could find in me and a cursory perusal of my browser history would reveal several search attempts to buy one of the colorfully playful but sophisticatedly composed outfits her character always sported. But, more importantly, unlike me she was confident, adventurous, and unabashedly willing to speak her mind. She was wild and a mess at times, but there was something about Mindy that sincerely resonated with something in me.

Josh is unimpressed. "But she's so shallow! All she dates are these ridiculously handsome men, and her life is completely consumed by them, or talking about how good looking they are. I mean, promise me you like me for something besides my giant, Michael Fassbender-like penis."

I smile. "Don't flatter yourself. I guess I understand how you see it when you look at the plot alone, but the show is so much more than that. For a girl to see someone like Mindy who's, you know, not a Parisian runway model, but still gorgeously curvy and truly believes she deserves to and will find love? It's incredible."

As Mindy in the show leans in to kiss her beau of the week, I do the same to mine. Josh rests his head on my bloated stomach. "I love you, but you're thin and beautiful it's ridiculous for you to worry about that."

I think of my calorie-fest of a brunch, the broken zipper on my too-small dress, and Meredith's all too real struggle to find love in a tiny girl-obsessed dating pool. "Yeah," I mutter. "Ridiculous."


End file.
